Cracks in the Wall
by Nanatsusaya
Summary: Dean comes down with the flu while on a routine hunt.  Sam and John put aside their differences to give him a little much needed attention.  Gen, pre-series.


If Dean had a nickel for every time he heard Sam slam the car door and his father grouse "hey, watch the paint", he would be a very rich man. His family was in top form that night, arguing in tighter and tighter circles until his head began to throb. The silent treatment would have been much appreciated, but it seemed unlikely Sam was going to give up when the subject was the college entrance exams that he wasn't studying for because he was on this oh-so-inconvenient mission to save the lives of an oblivious young couple and their leg-humping little dog. The couple had laughed at him earlier while the dog put the moves on his favorite jeans and damn if his head wasn't about to split open _right the hell now_. Dean brushed passed his brother to the trunk with a warning look Sam ignored, using it as a barrier to dull the noise and give him a moment to take slow breaths, wasting more time than strictly necessary to gather supplies.

For probably the fifteenth time, Sam was saying, "The test is on Saturday, that's in two days. You couldn't have fucking waited, could you?" and his father was saying, "Spirit ain't gonna wait to kill people. Worry about your stupid test on your own damn time."

This was too much, he should have snuck out quietly and finished the job before the fighting turned cyclic; fuck condescending yuppies and their horny pets, he could be out at a bar enjoying a cold one and some more amiable company by now. Or passed out shitfaced on his half of the bed or in another state or _something_. Thirty-six hours crammed in the car with Sam and their father was one mildly unpleasant thing, but that plus Sam freaking out about school was ten times worse. No one Sam's age should be that concerned about their future, Dean figured.

His minute of quiet time was cut short by a hand snatching the duffel roughly out of his. "You takin' a nap back here?" John snapped, pulling out a handful more salt rounds from the box before he was satisfied.

"No, just sick of listening to this." Dean shouldered his rifle with a frown and received only a narrow look in reply from his father. John slammed the trunk, turned and stalked toward the house. Dean inhaled and held it. His heart was fluttering when he started forward, dragging his heels until he was well behind Sam too. Anxiety attacks were not on his list of things to experience, but Dean toyed with the idea that he might be on the verge of one at that moment.

They were lucky the owners were out for the night and there was one less variable to worry about. Dean probably would have shot the dog if it had been in the house, but it was chained to a tree on the far end of the yard. He shook his rifle at it anyway as he trudged up the steps. The dog yipped uncertainly and he squeezed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to lessen the ache in his head.

"Dean?" Sam was leaning out the door and looking at him with that severe frown he hated seeing on his little brother. "Dad says hurry up." The message was relayed with a nasty sneering twitch at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't have an aneurism."

Inside, the walls echoed as they tended to do in big old houses, the tastefully expensive area rugs doing little to prevent it. They wouldn't be here long, Dean figured, provided they could find the remains quickly. Murderous husband gave his wife an impromptu burial under the floorboards, so the legend went. Now the missus liked to do the same to any innocent husband that moved in. Gruesome, but straightforward enough. He couldn't deny that there wasn't much reason to drag Sam along for this, but their father was being mulish over the taboo "college" as usual. Bed was starting to sound more enticing than the bar, Dean was exhausted listening to them.

Dean took advantage of the break while they let their eyes adjust to the dim light, and gestured with his gun to the kitchen. "I'm gonna start in there." Anything to get some peace. Neither John nor Sam seemed to acknowledge his statement beyond a nod. Apparently they had realized neither was going to back down and were giving each other the silent treatment. _And it only took two freakin' hours_, Dean thought sourly.

He was disappointed to find his head still hurt in the kitchen, not that he thought it would be that easy. A few halfhearted taps on the floor in the search for anything that sounded hollow and he was pulling off his jacket and rubbing his neck with his free, albeit stiff, hand. The ache had crept downward and his heart was still doing acrobatics he wished would stop. The room felt oddly warm and cold at the same time, and Dean was pretty sure it wasn't a side effect of the ghost. Who hides bodies in the kitchen? That's would be just gross. The door to the basement was in the room, and that seemed a little more promising.

The wooden stairs creaked as Dean ventured down, but after ten his foot connected solidly with a finished concrete floor. He pulled the light string and found his surroundings solid, save for a sink and a new washer and dryer. Waste of time, but at least it was blissfully quiet. He leaned against the washing machine, ignoring the hunt momentarily while he considered the fact that his headache wasn't lessening, he was breathing like a smoker, and the tremble in his muscles wasn't imagined or part of an impending anxiety attack. Okay, mild cold. Unfortunate, but manageable. Dean still cringed mentally at the idea of being sick in the same room that dad and Sam were waging verbal war on each other.

Over his head a pair of feet stumped passed, most likely Sam, since their father would never deign to jeopardize a hunt to advertise his bad mood. Dean snorted in bitter amusement, and pushed himself sluggishly back toward the staircase. His foot was reaching for the first step when he heard a shout, a sharp thud, and a half muffled swear somewhere above. Before Dean could fully register the meaning of the sounds he was dashing up the stairs, the air straining in his lungs. His vision was prickling by the time his feet were slipping across the kitchen linoleum, trying to aim for the hallway. God, it looked five minutes long from there to the living room. Dean righted himself and forced his aching joints to move, but the little pinpoints were starting to collect in his peripheral vision. _I won't black out, I won't black out, I'm not going to fucking faint like a girl_, Dean repeated in his head, but by at the end of the hall everything started to go fuzzy gray. _Dammit, I'm going to black out._

Dean woke to his father patting his face too hard. His eyes focused after several blinks and that was when he realized his whole body hurt. "What the hell…" he groaned, his attempt to push upright thwarted by John pressing on his shoulder.

"You fainted on us, dude." Sam's voice was a little quieter and gentler than it had been earlier. One broad palm landed on Dean's forehead as his brother's face came into view, and he swatted it away. Every slight flex of muscle made him grimace at the flaring ache in his joints.

Dean exhaled and again made a move to rise. "Awesome." He was really too tired to be embarrassed, but a little sarcasm was definitely in order, weak voice aside.

"Dad, he has a pretty bad fever." Sam's arm snaked around his shoulders, helping him sit up though their father frowned and flicked his eyes up to his son's hairline. Perplexed, Dean brought his hand up and connected with a painful, but largely unthreatening lump on his forehead. He must have pitched forward and hit one of the edge of the couch when he passed out. Even better.

"I don't think I have a concussion," he answered to his father's obvious concern. "What happened? Did you find the remains?"

He could feel Sam stiffen against him and Dean instinctively knew it was only a matter of time before they were tossing blame around over an unfinished job. It was John that finally answered, "No, we'll have to come back another night. Let's call it quits and get you back to the room."

For once, Dean didn't have the energy to argue, and he knew he'd be a liability when even remaining semi-upright made his head swim. The more alert he became the more uncomfortably aware he became of a laundry list of flu symptoms. Running down that hall brought it all crashing down at once, though at least illness would explain why he'd been irritable and off the entire day. "Okay," Dean mumbled, more relieved than he would ever admit to the extras days in town. The extra time and extra space, however meager, would give him all a chance to decompress. In Dean's mind, getting sick was a preemptory measure to keep the three of them from killing each other during the next car trip.

Sam helped him up and kept a steadying hand on his arm as they returned to the car. Dean collapsed boneless in the backseat and waited for John to clean up inside as best he could. A plastic water bottle appeared near his face, Sam stretching back with it to eye him with a slight frown. "How are you feeling?"

Dean thought about delivering a snappish reply, but he figured Sam didn't need both of them mad at him. "Like ass."

The bottle moved forward insistently, until it was almost touching his lips. "You should have some water."

"Right. Thanks, Sammy." Dean didn't feel like drinking, but he indulged his brother until the worried crease between his eyebrows smoothed out.

The driver's side door opened and closed, followed soon by the rumble of the engine. Dean could see the back of his father's head, heard him say something noncommittal to Sam. He drifted half asleep for the rest of the ride back, enjoying the relative quiet compared to the ride over. They found a vacancy easily enough, but funds were still low and it was two queen beds again for the three of them. Maybe he could get Sam to sleep with dad or on the floor, leaving him the whole bed to stretch out his aching limbs and back for one night. Collapsing in the exact middle of it would be a good start to his cause.

Dean must have fallen asleep for several minutes because when the he startled back to reality he could feel someone taking off his shoes and hear strong voices compressed into the tiny room, pushing past the compacted cotton sensation filling his skull.

"If you hadn't been stomping around like a goddamn amateur you wouldn't have brought the thing right down on you, then we'd be done with this gig. I sweat to God, Sam, this moody teenager crap has got to stop." The closest voice was his father's, and Dean turned his head slightly to confirm it was indeed John yanking off his second shoe and dropping it abruptly on the floor. This is not what Dean had in mind for the rest of the night. He pulled his socked feet away turned on his side.

"You awake, son?" John's hand reached back to rest on his calf. Dean opened his eyes and glared, but his father's attention was already being pulled back to Sam.

"Yeah? Well, maybe if you had let us stay in tonight, Dean wouldn't be so sick right now." Sam was pacing, fist crammed into the pockets of his sweatshirt and not looking at either of them.

"Sam, that's not the reason you're mad at me, and you know it."

The noise hurt his ears, the light hurt his eyes, the topic of conversation made him want to puke, and he really, really wanted to sleep. There was no reason to listen keep listening, he knew exactly how the rest of the argument would go. His feet were hitting the carpet and moving toward the door before his brain could fully fight through the dizzy haze, but it was a sight better than sticking around for the second verse. "Shut the fuck up," Dean mumbled as he flung open the door and slammed it behind him.

The early spring air was cool on his face chasing away the brain fog enough to realize that going out as sick as he was couldn't be an intelligent solution. He wasn't even wearing shoes. Dean sucked in deep breaths until it made him cough and he had to sit down. A chill seeped into his bones mere seconds after his butt hit the hard metal seat. The lack of any sort of noise from their room gave him hope that maybe his family had finally gotten the message. The soft click of the door latch opening drew his gaze and Sam's head poked out for a second before ducking back in. Dean rolled his eyes, guessing that they were deciding what to do with him and his disobedience to all widely known medical advice. When both his brother and father appeared, the tightness in his chest eased a little, at least the part that was caused by circumstance rather than the flu virus. Sam looked as guilty as if he had just accidentally run over someone's grandmother. John was managing a good approximation of stoic, but the tic in his cheek told Dean he was faking.

"I'm gonna go across and see if that gas station has some cold meds. You two boys get back inside and get warm." The hand ghosting over his shoulder as his father walked by was as good as an apology.

"Get me some decent food while you're there," Dean called after him. "Not microwave soup."

Sam had come to stand uncertainly next to the bench, shifting feet until John was across the street. When Dean decided to stand, he hovered silently at his brother's elbow until they were back in the room. Dean resumed his position on the bed, this time reaching for the remote.

"Dean…"

Sam obviously didn't think all was forgiven. "Dude, don't go all girly on me now." He stopped and considered his brother's expression. The kid looked like he was going to implode. Dean sighed and moved over, arranging the blankets over himself as he did. "Get in, princess."

Dean's fantasy of having the whole bed for the night flew out the window. If he was being honest with himself, his brother's warmth was far more soothing, especially when he was relatively sure this illness was going to get worse before better. Sam rolled onto his side and huffed out a breath near Dean's ear, finally letting some of the tension ease off. "I'm sorry about," his hand flapped helplessly on the mattress between them, "…about today. I would have quit if I knew you weren't feeling well."

"Don't worry about it." Dean glanced at Sam as he flicked though the channels, and thought for a moment. The boy's lower lip was dry and scabbed; he'd been worrying at it for days and it wouldn't heal. The constant fighting lately was overwhelming for all of them, but neither Sam nor John had the emotional strength to back down. "You know we won't be going back for you to take that test."

"Yeah…I know." Sam was disappointed, but not as badly as Dean expected. "It's okay, I'll have other chances."

Dean's jaw worked back and forth. The fever must be screwing with his head, he decided when his tongue moved seemingly without permission. "I wish you and dad didn't fight like that."

"Yeah," came the muffled reply. Sam's reaction to his quiet admission was to curl his hand around Dean's upper arm and lean his face into his shoulder. The hand fit around a good two-thirds of his arm, though Sam had not quite caught up in height. Dean was pretty sure Sam hadn't meant it to be a protective gesture, but he was as grateful as he was humbled by the sensation. Yeah, the fever must be screwing with his head.


End file.
